Letters from Heaven
by Gillian Leigh
Summary: Mulder finds a letter in the hospital room that once belonged to his wife. WARNING: Character death! Yes, that's right, I have written a character death story!! I fixed Chapter 2...sorry about that to all of you who noticed... I'm a ditz.
1. The Letter

Letters from Heaven

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Author: Gillian Leigh (a.k.a. Amanda :o) )

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Rating: PG (for the use of the occasional curse word.)

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Archive: Sure, just tell me where.

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Summary: Mulder finds a letter in the empty hospital room that once belonged to his wife.

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Disclaimer: I don't own them, I only use them as puppets to act out my insane plotlines! Muahahahahahaha! :o) Oh, and I don't own the song "Angel" either, I just... umm... borrowed it...

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Feedback: Yes please!!!! 

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Author's Notes: This story was inspired by the song "Angel" by Sarah McLachlan. Love this one, or hate it, please respect the effort. I put a lot of time into it. Please R&R.

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May 4, 2006

From the outside, it is just another empty room. The bed, covered in crisply folded white linens, awaits the arrival of someone new. Looking in, you would never know, that for the past four months, a war waged within these four walls. A war fought by one soldier, against an enemy of infinite proportions. A war lost less than twenty-four hours ago. I walked over to the bed, and sat in the chair next to it. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the beeping of the monitors, and the slow sound of her breathing. I can still smell the raspberry shampoo that she had insisted the nurses use. I can still picture her, my beautiful Dana, her skin so pale it is practically translucent, her hollow cheeks, shadowed by her jutting, overly prominent cheek bones. I remembered her beautiful blue eyes, which had lost all their sparkle as the disease destroyed her, little by little. I remembered holding her hand in mine, through all hours of the night. So cold, her hands were always so cold. 

She can't really be gone, right? She'd fought this cancer once before, and beaten it. I'm waiting for her to tap me on the shoulder and yell, "Boo!" I want this to be a joke. I just want to take her home. As much as I want these things, I know that this is all a sad reality I have to face. My wife is dead; cancer beat her. I cradled my head in my hands, and when I opened my eyes, I saw something sticking put from under the mattress. I pulled it out, and found that it was a particularly fat envelope, and in Dana's handwriting, I found my name. I tore open the seal on the envelope, and found that it contained several pages of stationery that all have "From the Desk of Dana Scully" across the top. They were all filled, front and back, with her neat handwriting. Seeing them brought tears to my eyes, and I couldn't bring myself to read it. The pain was still too fresh, the wounds, open, and reading my wife's last written words would be like pouring salt into them. I pocketed the envelope; I was going to be late for work. 

May 7, 2006 

Three days later, I sat at my desk, and though I was supposed to be writing a report for Skinner, I found that I couldn't concentrate. The thought of the letter in my desk drawer made it impossible. I looked at the pictures on my desk. The pictures of our happy times, the times before cancer. There were pictures of Dana with the kids, laughing and smiling, but even as I looked at the image of her at her healthiest, I could only picture her at her worst; the day she died. I put the picture face down on my desk with an angry slam, and this caused Agent Reyes, my new, official partner, to look up. 

"Agent Mulder?" she questioned.

"I'm fine," I said. How very Scully of me, I thought. My heart practically hurt, just thinking those words. I couldn't imagine how much it would have killed me to say them out loud. She rose from her desk and stood in front of mine. I looked up. 

"Yes, Agent Reyes?" 

"Mulder, Agent Pantero wanted me to help him with something. It's going to take up the majority of the day. Are you alright with me leaving?" she asked, gently.

"Go right ahead, Agent Reyes. It's not like you'll be missing anything monumental, trust me," I said flatly. Without a word she left the office, closing the door behind her. I couldn't admit to myself what I was doing as I opened the desk drawer. With a shaking hand I pulled out the envelope, which sat under her FBI ID tag and wedding band. I opened it and pulled out the pages. I unfolded them, but just the sight of my name written in her beautiful handwriting started the tears. I couldn't bear the thought of reading it. This letter was the last thing she'd ever written expressly for the purpose of having me read it. I just *couldn't* bring myself to open such wounds. 

The door opened, and I looked up, still imagining that it would be Dana who walked through the door. Every day I had to remind myself that she was gone. I hadn't imagined these things during the four months she was in the hospital. I suppose it was because I could still leave every day and go see her, and there was always the prospect that she would get better, and eventually she *would* be walking through that door again. But since she was really gone, I fantasized about these things, because I knew that they could never truly be. 

Skinner stood in the doorway, and his expression was somber as he asked, 

"What time is the service?" I wiped my eyes, my face turned downward, and said, 

"Seven. Closed casket. She wouldn't want anyone to see her so sick-looking," I said. 

"I suppose it's better that way," Skinner said. He walked to the desk and put his hand on my shoulder, "Once, again, Mulder, my condolences. She was a wonderful person, and this is a terrible loss for us all as well." I raised my eyes to look at him, and saw that he too looked a little misty around the edges. 

"Thank you," I choked out, shaking his hand. "She told me she'd rather a closed casket so I wouldn't have to explain it to the kids," I added, not sure exactly why I felt the need to do so. I had never cared to justify my actions to Skinner before. But perhaps this was different. This wasn't the X-Files. This wasn't over-spending and off-the-wall investigative tactics we were talking about. 

"You should take the rest of the day off. You need to be with your children," Skinner said, leaving the office and closing the door behind him. As I glanced down at the picture on my desk, the last family portrait, I felt overwhelmed with grief, though it was not the first time. My family was dwindling, one by one, the few precious people I had were leaving me. First three years ago, a heart attack, much like Bill Scully's, claimed the life of his wife. Dana was pregnant at the time, and the day our daughter was born, she had looked up and me and whispered simply, 

"Maggie." I remembered nodding solemnly, and looking down into the soulful, yet vivacious eyes of our youngest. Maggie Scully was like a mother to me. Her death created devastation in our family that seemed insurmountable. I remembered, that for the first time in years, when I met up with Dana's brother, Bill, we had gotten along. I only wish Maggie had lived to see it. Agent Doggett was killed in the line of duty just over a year ago, leaving Monica Reyes a widow, and their son Jake, fatherless. And now, another casualty to add to the mounting toll. 

__

"Fuck this." I thought to myself, and left the office. Skinner was accustomed to my coming and going as I pleased. He may not have liked it, but I didn't care much anymore. 

In the past week, I had been considering more and more the thought of leaving the FBI all together, as Dana had proposed numerous times before she'd gotten sick. 

"You've searched for the truth, Fox. The truth about your sister, and about those conspiring against us. Haven't you gotten all those answers?"

"Yes.. I suppose I have."

"Then why stay in the FBI? What is there, really, to keep us? As much as we've tried to make a difference, it doesn't seem that we can. Our efforts are knocked down. I've asked myself, as I'm sure you have, what really keeps us there," she'd said to me. I still remember what she wore, and how she stood with Sam balanced on her hip, her expanding waistline providing the first visual clue to passerby that she was pregnant. I hadn't responded in that instant, unable to provide a valid argument, though I knew I wouldn't concede. Something just drew me to the FBI. Something kept me there. Though I didn't know it at the time, that something was the force my wife carried with her, the compassion for what she did, and the unbelievable light that showed when she entered the room. 

The light has been extinguished. 

I arrived home to find my children playing happily. They still had no comprehension of their mother's death, and I didn't know how long it would take Maggie and Sam to understand. Will would catch on more quickly, because he had asked so many questions when his grandmother died. The babysitter looked surprised to see me, especially at one in the afternoon. 

"Mr. Mulder? You're home so early." 

"I have some things to attend to, Jess. I'll still pay you your regular wages for today. Go home and spend the rest of the day with your family," I said, sighing. 

"Okay, Mr. Mulder. If there's anything you need, you have my home number and my cell phone number," Jess replied, pulling on her jacket. "They've all had lunch, and they gave me no problems, as usual. They were total angels," she continued, on her way out the door. 

"Thank you," I replied slipping off my jacket. I sat down on the couch, and Maggie ran to me, her red curls bouncing. 

"Daddy!" 

"Hey pumpkin!" I replied as she climbed into my lap. I was more grateful now than ever that she was a carbon copy of her mother. I couldn't find any of my facial features in her, other than the dimples in her cheeks. 

"You have fun playing wif da aliems today, Daddy?" I laughed. This had been the only way to explain the X-Files to our children. They didn't care about government conspiracies. They just thought it was cool that we got to 'play with aliens'. 

"Yup, you bet." She played with my tie and looked shy as she asked, 

"Daddy, is Mommy wif Grandma Maggie in Heaven now?"

"Yes, sweetheart, she is," I responded, feeling my heart sink. 

"When is she coming home?" I fought the tears back. Crying in front of Maggie was not going to make this easier. 

"Mommy can't come home, baby girl, they need her up there in heaven." 

"Is Mommy an angel? Like the one we put on the Christmas tree?" I nodded.

"Mommy and Grandma Maggie are our angels, Mags. They're going to watch over us," I paused, wishing I could help her understand. "You know, sweetie, you can talk to Mommy if you like. She might not say anything back, but she's listening." Maggie's face lit up. 

"Okay, Daddy." She hopped off my lap, humming as she went off to play. Will approached me hesitantly. 

"Dad?"

"Yes, Will?"

"Did you tell Maggie that Mommy listens to us when we talk?" I nodded. 

"Yep. Why do you ask?"

"Cause sometimes, right before I go to bed, I talk to her. I talk to Grandma sometimes too. Is that weird?" 

"No, Will. It's not weird at all," I whispered. He sniffled a little, and I pulled him into my lap.

"I miss her, Daddy. I just wish she could come home." I felt a tear slip down my cheek as I held my son.

"Me too, Will. Me too."

May 7, 2006

The house was so quiet. The kids were staying with Bill and Tara, and I was surprised Social Services didn't try to take them after my outburst at Dana's funeral. I was teetering emotionally on the edge, but when I arrived at the church and found that her casket was open, I lost it. 

"What the hell is this?!" I yelled, confronting the funeral director. 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Mulder, what's wrong?"

"I specifically asked that this god damned funeral be closed-casket!"

"Sir, I have it written down, there was to be an open casket."

"Don't you argue with me. This is *my* wife's funeral. I requested closed-casket, there will *be* a closed-casket!" I bellowed, pulling him up to the front of the church. 

"Do you see her?" I asked, practically screaming. The man had nodded, looking frightened. "Do you see how thin she is? How sick looking?" He nodded.

"Do you have any idea what she went through?! Did you know that I watched cancer consume her every day for four months, breaking her body and her spirit? Did you know that she cried in her sleep at night, because she refused to cry in front of me? Did you know she apologized every day because she knew she was dying and she felt like she was betraying me?" He shook his head 'no'. I looked down at him with fury and tears in my eyes. 

"Exactly. I think I would know better than you what type of funeral is best for *my* goddamn *wife*! Now close the casket. Just CLOSE IT!" With shaking hands, the man began closing the lid of Dana's casket, but before he did, I bent down and lightly kissed her forehead. She looked so peaceful, lying there. She had on her favorite suit, and baby blue dress shirt. The lid of the black casket was closed softly, my wife was sealed away. 

I left the service early. I didn't give a damn if I'm the widower and I'm supposed to be there. I was tired of hearing everyone's condolences. No one knew her like I did, with the possible exception of her brothers. But even they didn't know her on the same level as I did. They knew the Dana Scully who had grown up with them, the sister who'd gone off to med school and grown up across the country from them. They *truly* knew her until age 18. I knew her from age 30 to age 43, until the cancer took her. They were the best thirteen years of my life. 

I sat on the couch, in my suit, drowning my sorrows in a bottle of bourbon. I remained in the cold, dark, quiet apartment for a number of hours before I remembered the letter. I set the bottle down and settled down into the couch, turning on the light so I could see. I took a deep breath to steady myself as I unfolded the pages. I wondered what I would find revealed to me in her writing. I worried as well, thinking I might not be able to handle it. But my curiosity outweighed my fear, and so I read. 

-'My Dearest Fox, April 25, 2006

I've had a lot of time to think lately, what with being confined to this damned hospital bed. The visitors aren't so frequent anymore, and even the doctors stop by less and less. I don't know if that's good or bad, but I would guess it means the situation isn't changing, whether for better or worse. Because staring at the same four walls day-in and day-out gets monotonous and I don't have any pencils to throw at the ceiling, I've decided that while I still have the strength, I will write this letter to you. I know; I know, you're here every day after work, and sometimes you sneak in after visiting hours and stay the night, but what I have to say can be expressed more easily on paper.

Back before I was sent to this dreaded hospital, I was sitting on the couch, watching the kids play, and trying to digest the news that my cancer had returned, when I heard the Sarah McLachlan song, "Angel", playing on the radio. As I listened to the words, I thought the song was touching, beautiful, and oddly appropriate. It occurred to me that this song described the way I felt after getting that phone call. Of course, I didn't spend too much time thinking about it. There were other more pressing issues at hand, like what we were having for dinner, what clothes I would pick for Will to wear to school...and how I would tell you about my cancer.

As I stood in the kitchen, placing the thawed ham steak into a baking pan, I found myself in tears as I wondered just how many dinners I had left in me. Would this be the last time I slid a ham steak into the oven, and called Will, Samantha and Maggie over to help me mash the potatoes?

For days, I refused to believe it. "There's no way." I thought to myself. I was furious as well. "Shouldn't once be enough?!" I had asked angrily. One thing I thought of immediately was how relieved I was that my mother didn't have to go through this again. I didn't want her to have to bury another child. I'm just sorry that this leaves the burden on you. I wondered why I had to go through this hell all over again. Was it a test? Not the kind you're thinking of, Fox. I mean a test of faith. I looked back on how many times I had faced death, and thought pleadingly, "I don't want to die." What kind of faith is that? But I'm not writing this letter to complain about my illness. You've been through it once, and shouldn't have to deal with it again. 

I wanted to tell you how sorry I am. If you're reading this, though I tried my best to fight it, the cancer has won, and I'm gone from this world. I have to apologize for leaving you and the children. Take good care of our miracles, Fox. Please, remind them all you can of me. Show them pictures. I know that William will most likely have some memory of me, but I fear that Sammy and Maggie are too young. And if you show them pictures, please show them only the good ones; the ones from before I got sick. I remember how scared they were to come see me, hooked up to all those machines, looking like a ghost.

I realized long ago that I'm dying. Long before the doctors told me that the chemo and radiation were doing nothing. Long before they told me that the cancer had metastasized. It's odd, you know. At first, I thought the sickness and dizzy spells that came with being pregnant with Maggie were cancer. Then when I began experiencing the nausea, dizzy spells and headaches that I didn't know were indicators of the cancer, I feared I was pregnant again. I can't stand the thought of leaving you, of leaving the children. I can't apologize enough for this. 

Because I know you, Fox, and I know how your mind works, I want to assure you that none of the things that happened to me over the years were your fault. No matter what my brother may have tried to convince you, *you* are *not* the cause of my cancer. When I signed on to the X-Files, I may have been a "spy" of sorts, but I made the decision to stick around. I always had the opportunity to walk out that door, but I didn't. *I* chose to stay. It was *my* decision to join the FBI, to put my life on the line. We both knew the risks; we both accepted them. Fox, I love you. I've always loved you, and none of this could ever have been your fault.

Do you know when it was that I realized I was in love with you? I realized that I loved you at the end of that case involving that writer, Philip Padgett, who lived next door to you. The one who wrote the book about me. When you came back to your apartment and found me on the floor, you didn't say a word. You were just *there* for me. You just held me. I realized then how much you loved me, and how much I was in love with you. That hasn't changed, Fox. It never will. 

I'm scared, Fox. Terrified. Not so much scared of where I'm going, but I'm afraid of what I'll be missing. I'm scared to leave you, to leave the comforts of being a wife and mother. I also feel guilty for many things. I wish I didn't have to leave you before we discovered how to save the world from the coming Apocalypse. I hope the work that we did manage to do provides some help. Our children deserve to live to see 2013, as do you. I hope it helps, because though I long to see you again, I hope for the sake of you and the children that it will be a long time from now. 

Promise me that you'll do what's best for the children and yourself, Fox. Tell the children how much I love them, and when you can, show them pictures of me from time to time. I'll be watching over you all, and waiting until I see you again. Goodbye my love, I leave you now for a new place. And when we meet again, may you find yourself in the arms of an angel. 

All my Love,  
Dana'-

I smiled through the tears, and folded the pages, placing them in their envelope. For the first time in months, I could sleep.


	2. A Visitation

Thanks, PixieDustBunny, I um, fixed it. I wrote this part months after the first, so that thing kinda got forgotten. Sorry everyone.

December 24, 2013

In a living room, darkened except for the glow of the lights on the Christmas tree, a child, far too old to be waiting up hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus, has spread his lanky form across the length of a couch. He fell asleep, without a blanket or pillow, his arm and leg on the right side touching the floor. He sleeps on his stomach, snoring slightly through his open mouth. Though he doesn't know it, the very ones he hoped to see are standing in the corner of the living room, casting their own glow. 

"Fox, can't I just move that piece of hair out of his face, please?" Scully whispers, fidgeting with the sleeve of her white gown. Her husband smiles at her. 

"Dana, you know once you touch him he'll wake up, and we'll have to leave. Let's just take a few more minutes to watch him sleep. In a few years, he won't be waiting up to see us on Christmas Eves anymore," he conjectures, putting an arm around his wife's shoulder. 

"It's hard to believe he's thirteen. He's so tall, so mature looking. He could be your twin." 

"But he still has your eyes," Mulder whispers. Scully smiles at him, her hand brushing his cheek. He looks nothing of the ragged, truth-seeking widower who set out in May of the previous year to save the world, and who, after completing his mission, having died at the hands of one he believed to be on his side. In the same respect, she looks nothing of the frail woman who succumbed to cancer, the same nasal pharyngeal tumor that she had beaten once before. They look as they did when their children were born. Young and healthy; eternally so. 

"I'm glad the girls are sleeping well this Christmas. It was hard on them last year you know," Scully says, watching with contentment as her son sleeps, his eyes moving beneath his lids; consequent of another REM cycle. 

"They're doing well. Monica's doing a great job of caring for them. I'm glad we listed her as the kids' caregiver in our wills," he contributes. She smiles, but noting the clock on the wall, the time draws near for them to go back. 

"Once a year is not enough." Her husband nods sympathetically, fiddling with the tie on his white robe to avoid her eyes. 

"We should go, sweetheart." 

"Just let me give him a hug and get that hair out of his eyes.." Mulder laughs quietly but concedes, knowing how stubborn his wife is. She creeps across the living room, making not a sound, but leaving simply a silver glow in her wake. She embraces him quickly, and takes a split second to push the hair out of his eyes. She pauses for a moment, as he stirs slightly, before placing a gentle kiss on his now-exposed forehead. William opens his eyes, and at seeing his mother's face before his, says, 

"Mom?" before quickly sitting up. He rubs his eyes, but when he opens them again, his mother is gone, but there is an unmistakable silver glow to the air. He touches his forehead, the spot where he felt her kiss, and glances at the silver dust on his fingertips, not with surprise or fear, if anything, he glances at it with a knowing smile, and an understanding, as he lowers his head to the couch to sleep again, saying, 

"Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad. See you next year."

Author's Notes: This one took a lot of time and effort, despite its length. I had to find a tasteful way to deal with Scully's death, and tie into it the fact that they *do* end up meeting in Heaven sooner than Scully would've liked to have seen. I've included the lyrics to "Angel" the song that proved to be the inspiration for this entire story, which oddly enough, was originally going to deal with Mulder and Scully falling in love. (Letters from Heaven was not the title of the first one...) But I realized somewhere along the way, that character death was more fitting with the way the lyrics are sung, so I deleted the story and started all over again. Thanks for reading, and I hope you liked it.

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'Angel'

Sarah McLachlan 

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Spend all your time waiting  
for that second chance  
for a break that would make it okay  
there's always one reason  
to feel not good enough  
and it's hard at the end of the day  
I need some distraction  
oh beautiful release  
memory seeps from my veins  
let me be empty  
and weightless and maybe  
I'll find some peace tonight  
  
in the arms of an angel  
fly away from here  
from this dark cold hotel room  
and the endlessness that you fear  
you are pulled from the wreckage  
of your silent reverie  
you're in the arms of the angel  
may you find some comfort there  
  
so tired of the straight line  
and everywhere you turn  
there's vultures and thieves at your back  
and the storm keeps on twisting  
you keep on building the lie  
that you make up for all that you lack  
it don't make no difference  
escaping one last time  
it's easier to believe in this sweet madness oh  
this glorious sadness that brings me to my knees  
  
in the arms of an angel  
fly away from here  
from this dark cold hotel room  
and the endlessness that you fear  
you are pulled from the wreckage  
of your silent reverie  
you're in the arms of the angel  
may you find some comfort there  
you're in the arms of the angel  
may you find some comfort here  
  
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Feedback always welcome! xxilovedaviduchovnyxx@yahoo.com 

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